


sing me like a choir

by vannes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Canon Compliant, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Victor Nikiforov, Victor Gets Touched And Fucked For 10.5k, Victor Is Touch Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 21:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannes/pseuds/vannes
Summary: Yuuri wakes up with Victor Nikiforov in his arms, and makes the unwitting decision to make the most of his rest day.





	sing me like a choir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurxnts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurxnts/gifts).



> this is mostly unbeta'd because i got impatient, so if you see any mistakes feel free to point them out in the comments! i hope you guys enjoy this entirely self-indulgent 10k mess of Victor being fucked and also very deeply loved.

Yuuri has learned to savor his rest days. They’re few and far between, after his qualification for the GPF; Victor seems more insistent than ever that he is going to win gold at the Final in just a few weeks. They spend more and more hours at the rink, and at Minako’s dance studio, until Yuuri thinks that even _his_ stamina is starting to wear thin. And yet, Victor’s beaming face forces Yuuri out of bed every morning at a truly horrendous hour, and Victor’s quiet concentration at the rink urges Yuuri to push himself harder and harder every day. It’s worth it, when he gets to see Victor beaming at him when he lands a combination perfectly. It’s worth it, when Victor tugs him across the ice and rewards him with a kiss.

Most mornings, Yuuri wakes up next to Victor and thinks that he’s still dreaming. Victor likes to be close at night, Yuuri has learned; he likes it when Yuuri tucks his whole body around him, one arm slung over the slender dip of Victor’s waist and his face pressed up against soft, silver hair. He rarely gets to enjoy it in the mornings, too bleary from sleep and miserable when reminded of the early hour, but on rest days Yuuri gets to savor waking up next to Victor, wrapped around him like—like a _lover_. On rest days, Victor sleeps in later than Yuuri does, despite his early-morning good moods.

This morning is no different. Yuuri blinks his eyes open at half past ten, only to be greeted by the sight of Victor’s disheveled hair in his face. He’s still dead asleep next to Yuuri, one hand resting lightly atop Makkachin on the other side of the bed, his legs twined around Yuuri’s own. Yuuri closes his eyes again, reaching up with the hand resting against Victor’s waist to rub the sleep from them, and Victor makes a discontented noise in his sleep, shifting back against Yuuri’s chest unconsciously.

And, _oh_ , Yuuri’s attention is suddenly brought to something much more insistent than rubbing at his face, trying to wake himself up. Because clearly, part of him is already _very_ awake, and pressed disconcertingly close up against Victor’s hips.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, of course. This isn’t even the first time it has happened on a rest day, and Yuuri has some _very_ fond memories of those mornings, but it never quite stops feeling like he’s doing something wrong, at least until Victor wakes up. As subtly as he can, Yuuri tries to shift his hips away from the curve of Victor’s ass, canted ever so slightly backwards, and Victor grumbles in his sleep again. On the other side of the bed, Makkachin lifts his head up drowsily, and then drops it back down again. Victor pushes back a bit and then they’re right back where they started, with Yuuri’s erection pressed up against Victor with only two layers of clothing separating them.

Yuuri groans a little into Victor’s hair, clenching his eyes shut tight before opening them again with a sigh. Finally, after a long moment of staring at the curve of Victor’s cheek and the gentle fall of his eyelashes, Yuuri pushes himself slowly out of the bed, intending to run himself a shower rather than wake Victor up. Except when he looks down at Victor, now splayed on his back, Yuuri can’t stop _staring_.

He knows that Victor is beautiful. He’s known that since he was twelve years old, watching Victor dance on the ice in what is now Yuuri’s _Eros_ costume, his hair fanning out behind him like a sheet of mercury. He’d had posters of Victor on his walls for years, even back in Detroit—he _knows_ that Victor is beautiful. It’s different, though, seeing Victor this vulnerable, in Yuuri’s _bed_. It’s overwhelming, and terrifying, and for a long moment Yuuri just stares in awe down at Victor.

He really does plan to get into the shower, to jerk off instead of bothering Victor with it, but then Victor’s brow furrows and his eyes slit open, and Yuuri suddenly knows that it might not be that easy.

“Yuuri?” Victor mumbles, his voice lilting sleepily. One of his arms reaches out, towards Yuuri’s side of the bed, and when he finds it empty Victor pushes himself up onto one elbow, the neck of his too-large shirt revealing far too much of his shoulder. His face visibly brightens when he sees Yuuri, standing awkwardly at the foot of his bed, and Yuuri feels too ridiculous to deserve it, standing with his half-hard cock tenting the front of his pants. Victor’s brow furrows again, adorably, and he looks up at Yuuri as if accusing him of something. “Where are you going, Yuuri?”

“I—” Yuuri starts, feeling his cheeks start to heat. Even half-asleep and adorably rumpled, Victor is still a little bit terrifying. He thinks maybe it’s because Victor is so very _intense_. “I was just—going to shower?”

Victor’s brow lifts, wonderfully expressive, and Yuuri curses himself for letting it sound like a question. Makkachin whines from his spot next to Victor, and Victor’s face brightens, his attention mercifully diverted onto his dog. Victor pushes himself up into a sitting position and turns himself to rub at Makkachin’s exposed belly, cooing sweet nothings at him that make Yuuri’s ears heat as he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He takes a step back, intending to retreat into the bathroom, but Victor’s attention snaps back to him like an elastic band, suddenly more intense now that he seems more awake.

“Yuuri,” he croons, and Yuuri stops in his tracks. His blush isn’t exactly going anywhere, and he can see Victor’s soft smile underneath the teasing expression. “Would you mind terribly if I joined you in the shower? We had a long day yesterday, and I didn’t get the chance to wash up after practice.”

Yuuri knows it’s a lie—he’d _seen_ Victor stepping out of the shower before dinner, his hair damp and a towel around his waist—but he can’t make himself point it out. Besides, the thought of Victor stepping under the spray with him, body slick and damp and so _close_ is irresistible. He nods, wordlessly, and Victor beams up at him from the bed.

“I’ll let Makkachin out, if you run the water.” Victor springs out of bed like he always does, awake and alert now despite having woken up only minutes ago, and Yuuri privately envies the ease with which Victor pulls himself out of sleep, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Even now Yuuri can feel the heaviness of his body, the slow apathy of his limbs that he usually finds it hard to shake off. He slips into the bathroom while Victor coaxes Makkachin out from his spot halfway underneath the blankets, and waits for the water to warm up before shrugging out of his clothes, ignoring his half-hard cock in favor of stepping under the warm spray.

The water feels good against Yuuri’s abused muscles, pounding relentlessly against the tense bunching of his shoulders as he reaches up to comb a hand through his wet hair, pushing it away from his face. He doesn’t hear Victor step in, but he hears when the shower door slide open to admit him. Victor presses close to Yuuri, inescapable in the relatively cramped space. Yuuri can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face when Victor drops a small kiss onto his shoulder, his hair quickly plastered to his forehead by the forceful spray.

Showering together has quickly become one of Yuuri’s favorite rest day routines—each time he pretends that it isn’t going to happen, trying not to get his hopes up, and each time Victor slips into the shower next to him anyway.

“Mmm,” Victor says, sliding his water-slick arms around Yuuri’s waist and tucking his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri feels the kiss pressed softly to the juncture of his jaw, Victor’s thumbs stroking across the stretch marks at his hips. “Good morning, Yuuri.”

Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever going to get tired of the way Victor says his name. His hand reaches up, almost of its own volition, and his fingers tangle themselves in Victor’s hair. Victor makes a contented noise in the back of his throat and dips his head back, until the spray of the water rains down onto his face. Yuuri is still half-hard, but it hardly seems to matter. Their showers aren’t about sex, not usually; it’s the intimacy that Yuuri loves, that he thinks Victor craves sometimes.

“Good morning, Victor,” he murmurs, reaching for the bottle of shampoo, and is rewarded with Victor’s hands trailing slick up his sides.

He works the shampoo into Victor’s hair first, working up a lather as he squints at the man above him, trying not to get flecks of sudsy water into his eyes as he looks up. Their bodies are pressed together by necessity, and while Yuuri can feel both himself and Victor half-hard and rubbing against skin, they’re each content to ignore it in favor of the simple closeness of fingers tangled in hair, working in shampoo and conditioner and some kind of cream for Victor that he thinks might be for hair loss, but is labeled in Russian and really, Yuuri doesn’t want to ask.

Victor practically purrs when Yuuri rinses the conditioner from his hair, nails scratching lightly along his scalp, and it makes something warm and possessive settle in Yuuri’s gut—he likes the noises he can pull from Victor even when it’s from an act as innocent as this. Victor retaliates with a kiss that somehow manages to get soap in both of their eyes, and Yuuri pushes him away with a laugh and forbids Victor to touch his face until they’re both completely rinsed off.

When the shower is over and both of them are relaxed from the hot steam and the gentle touches, Yuuri lets Victor towel him dry. He’s never asked why Victor likes it, why he holds up the towel with an achingly earnest look in his eye every time they emerge from the shower or the onsen, and he doesn’t plan to. He doesn’t want to break the ease that has settled between them when Victor gently rubs him down, paying careful attention to the crease of Yuuri’s arms and the dip of his spine before dropping, carefully, to his knees in order to dry Yuuri’s legs.

The sight takes his breath away, every time. Victor is _beautiful_ and Yuuri is sure that he’s never going to stop being overwhelmed by the sight of of him kneeling, head bowed as he dries Yuuri with such attentiveness that it takes his breath away. Before he can stop himself, Yuuri reaches out and runs his fingers through Victor’s still-dripping hair, pushing it away from where it sticks to his forehead until the strands are thick and clumped between his fingers. Victor tilts his head up, eyes wide and mouth fractionally open, and Yuuri can’t do anything but watch as Victor settles back onto his heels, his grip on the towel relaxing fractionally.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, and feels himself start to rouse again at the sight of Victor, elegant and graceful, on his knees in front of him. As if Yuuri is some sort of god; as if Yuuri is something worth worshipping. The warm curl of possession is still heady in Yuuri’s gut, only appeased by the darkness evident in Victor’s gaze as he looks up at Yuuri’s face, something almost desperate present in his eyes.

“Yes, Yuuri?” Victor asks, and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips. He blinks, eyes wide, and Yuuri suddenly wants nothing more than to _ruin_ him. It’s an almost unfamiliar urge—they had taken things slowly, after the kiss at the Cup of China, and most of the times they’d had sex Victor had initially taken the lead. And yet—the idea of taking control of Victor, of taking what is always so readily offered, is not wholly strange. Yuuri might be inexperienced, but he knows what he wants, and he knows that Victor wants him to take it.

“I want you to dry yourself, and when you’re dry I want you to go into the bedroom,” Yuuri says, voice measured, and he watches as the words hit first Victor’s brain, and then his body. Victor’s chest hitches, his eyes darken, and that telling place at the juncture of his thighs swells almost imperceptibly. Yuuri holds his breath, trying not to overstep his bounds, and yet Victor looks nothing but receptive; perhaps even a little pleased. “Wait for me on the bed, okay?”

“Yes, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs again, almost without hesitation, and it makes another curl of arousal twist its way through Yuuri’s stomach. Victor immediately begins toweling himself dry, still waiting on his knees for some kind of permission that Yuuri doesn’t quite feel like giving. He _likes_ Victor like this, waiting and ready on his knees like the most obscene form of supplication, and as much as it might make him a bad person, Yuuri isn’t quite ready to relinquish the sight. Victor’s hands are trembling, just enough to be noticeable. Every so often, his eyes flick up to Yuuri’s face again as if searching for approval. Yuuri just watches, impassively staring down despite his own nakedness—he can’t bring himself to be self conscious about it right now, not with Victor looking up at him so achingly _exposed_.

When he’s finished, hair puffed up slightly from the vigorous rubbing it had received just moments earlier, Victor unfolds himself from the bathroom floor. His knees are red from where they’d been pressed into the tile, and he winces a little when he straightens—the position is harder on him than Yuuri knows he likes to pretend. Yuuri doesn’t say anything, just watches as Victor bows his head, the picture of obedience, and slips out of the bathroom, still naked. Yuuri’s eyes track the not-so-unconscious sway of his hips before Victor shuts the door behind him, and Yuuri can’t help the fond smirk that tugs up the corners of his lips.

He waits a moment before entering the bedroom again. Maybe it’s the idea of Victor waiting on him, of having no other choice, that makes Yuuri hot; maybe he just wants to build up the anticipation for himself. Either way, he takes a minute to towel his hair completely dry and slip on his glasses, abandoned next to the sink. He can hear Victor’s restless shifting on the bed ever from behind the closed door, and it takes Yuuri a long moment of hesitation with his hand on the doorknob before he works up the nerve to twist the knob, anticipation and anxiety fluttering in the pit of his stomach, right next to the curled arousal.

And, oh, the sight is even better than Yuuri had imagined. He has to stop for a moment to collect himself, his hand clenching around the doorknob reflexively, and simply take in the sight of Victor, spread out on their bed like some kind of five-course meal, still naked and flushed and— _fuck_. Yuuri clenches his fingers around the door’s frame and takes a deep breath, taking the moment to look and appreciate while clamping down on the arousal starting to pulse through his entire body.

Victor looks—fuck, he looks incredible; he’s on his back, arms stretched out deliciously above him to grip onto the headboard, exposing the long, muscular planes of his torso. His head is dipped backwards, eyes half-lidded towards the ceiling, and his legs are bent underneath him, curving his spine into a delicate bow. Yuuri can see, front and center, the curve of his arousal against his abdomen, and quietly suppresses a groan. Victor, seemingly unaware of Yuuri standing in the doorway until that moment, jerks slightly on the bed, his head lifting slightly.

“Stay,” Yuuri says, before he can think twice about it, and Victor’s head immediately falls back down. He looks beautiful like this, stretched out languidly, putting his skater’s flexibility to the best possible use. Yuuri unclenches his fingers and takes a single step forward, towards where Victor is lying on the bed. He can see the tension in Victor’s body, the tight grip on the headboard likely to stop his hands from shaking. “Are you nervous, Vitya?”

The nickname sends a shudder through Victor, slow and painfully obvious, and Yuuri slicks his damp hair back from his face as he waits for the answer. Victor shifts slightly, his thighs tensing before relaxing again, and suddenly all Yuuri wants to do is _touch_ , to feel the ripple of muscle under his own fingers.

“Just—excited.” Victor’s voice is slightly strained, and Yuuri chuckles lowly. He’s not sure where all this confidence has come from; he thinks it might have something to do with the way Victor had kneeled for him, so obedient and willing to do anything Yuuri asked. He takes another step forward, and another, until he’s right at the foot of the bed, standing comfortably above Victor. If he leaned forward, their bodies would be flushed together, Yuuri’s hips settled comfortably against the arousal at the crux of Victor’s thighs.

Victor’s head is still tipped back, but his hooded eyes track Yuuri’s face, lashes damp from the shower or something else altogether.

“What do you want?” Yuuri asks, leaning some of his weight onto the bed. He feels his cock, bare and aroused, sway at the motion; even the slightest bit of friction against the bare skin of Victor’s smooth thigh is tantalizing. Victor sucks in a breath, barely audible, and Yuuri notices that his lips are chapped. He frowns; Victor hates having chapped lips. With barely a second thought, Yuuri reaches over to Victor’s nightstand and grabs the small tin of Vaseline, ever-present in Victor’s pocket wherever they go. Victor’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he hears the cap pop open, and Yuuri gathers a small amount on the tip of his finger. He braces himself on one elbow, lets his body press flush up against Victor’s, and lets his finger trace over the outline of Victor’s lips, covering them in slick.

The noise Victor makes is _obscene_. It’s part whine, part moan, part something deep and guttural from low in his throat, and Yuuri doesn’t think that he’s ever going to forget it in his _life_. The noise goes straight to his cock, and he can barely stop himself from thrusting against Victor’s thigh like some kind of teenager. Victor’s eyes are wide, staring up at him in something akin to shock, and Yuuri can feel the hard press of Victor’s cock into his hip. It’s tantalizing, having this much control—this much _power—_ over Victor Nikiforov, of all people, and Yuuri thinks he might be getting drunk on the sight of Victor looking up at him, helpless and already debauched.

“Yuuri,” Victor rasps, and his hips buck up; an aborted movement that has Yuuri pressing down on his hips with one hand, a silent warning. “ _Please_.”

“Please what, Vitya?” Yuuri murmurs and leans down so that his lips are inches away from Victor’s cheeks. His hair is dark with water and sweat, the silver strands a muted gray even in the midmorning light. “You need to learn to ask me for the things you want.”

It’s not a lie. When it comes to their relationship, Victor has been startlingly straightforward and yet—it’s never with his words. Always his actions, always searching out Yuuri’s hand to hold with a questioning tilt to his eyebrows; leaning in for a kiss with just a moment’s hesitation to give Yuuri time to decline; spreading his legs as an open invitation, lips firmly locked against Yuuri’s. Everything without the kind of direct conversation Yuuri had thought would come naturally to him.

Of course, they’ve had talks. Victor can be shockingly genuine when he settles down into the mood, and he never turns Yuuri down when he asks to have a conversation. It’s just that—Victor never _initiates_ it, and Yuuri’s starting to think that he might have to be pushed into asking for the things he wants, just slightly. And if a push is what Victor needs, Yuuri is all too willing to give it.

“Please,” Victor repeats again, this time a little more uncertain. His cock is still pressed against Yuuri’s thigh, but he doesn’t make any move to seek more friction. _Good boy_ , Yuuri thinks, and flushes with it. He draws away from Victor’s face, hoping that Victor doesn’t notice, and settles his weight comfortably onto his haunches, poised just atop Victor’s own thighs. After a long moment spent appreciating the sight he’s been gifted with, Yuuri sighs a little in mock-disappointment.

“Please _what_? Please suck my cock? Please fuck me? Please leave me alone, hard, without release until you decide I’ve earned it, Yuuri, please?” The words are vulgar, and sound clumsy on Yuuri’s tongue to his own ears, but Victor doesn’t seem to care—his hips buck up again seemingly without his permission, into the nothingness above it, and this time Yuuri lets it slide. “I can’t know what you want if you don’t _ask_ , Victor.”

“Kiss me—” Victor gasps, and he sounds _wrecked_. Yuuri can’t hold in his own sharp noise of shock, and arousal, and Victor’s lashes flutter against his cheekbones. His eyes are closed, and Yuuri reaches out to stroke a gentle finger along his jaw. Victor gasps, and Yuuri watches as if for the first time as his body responds to the simple touch. He leans up into it, each muscle in his body straining _up_ to get to where Yuuri is touching him; when Yuuri starts to pull away Victor’s pushes to follow him, until Yuuri settles his thumb back against the curve of Victor’s jaw, just underneath the bow of Victor’s lower lip. “Yuuri, please, _kiss me_.”

And, well, he’s asked so nicely. Yuuri leans down, carefully bracing his weight on one elbow, and presses his lips gently to Victor’s.

They’ve had a lot of kisses, since their first at the Cup of China. Sometimes with purpose, one or both of them pressing in deeper, _harder_ , until it moves to something more; sometimes aimless and light, pressed quickly to cheeks or foreheads or lips during the most fleeting of casual moments. Yuuri cherishes them all, loves the moments of aching heat seared between them when they’re in bed like this. Victor’s lust-drunk kisses are some of his favorites, and he’s tempted to indulge in one now, just to feel the _desperation_ that seems to be suffused in every bone of Victor’s body.

But—he doesn’t. Yuuri kisses him and it’s soft, sweet, everything he knows Victor doesn’t crave right now. Victor’s lips work against his, trying in his frustration to urge Yuuri into something more passionate, but Yuuri reaches down to pinch gently at the skin stretched over his hipbone, and Victor’s mouth falls open against his with a small cry, finally surrendering to Yuuri’s slow pace.

Yuuri can feel the tension in Victor’s body, lining every muscle, and he can tell how difficult it is for Victor to keep himself in this position, bowed in supplication and obedience and everything Yuuri had asked from him. It’s overwhelming for the both of them, and Yuuri has to break away from the kiss before it tempts him to _take_ , fully and completely and without compromise.

Today, Yuuri wants everything to be about Victor— _for_ Victor. When he pulls away, Victor’s chest is heaving beneath him, flushed almost all the way down to the peaks of his nipples. His eyes are closed, pale cheeks now a warmed pink, hair strewn out above him like some sort of halo. He takes Yuuri’s breath away—there is no way, no possible path he could have imagined as a child that would have allowed him this. Yuuri’s lips are tingling.

“Was that good?” He asks, but it’s not like the other times he’s asked in bed with Victor, infused with the barest hint of anxiety. This time Yuuri says it _knowing_ that it was good, vindicated by Victor’s helpless debauchery. The small, choked whimper Victor responds with makes Yuuri want to ravish him; he wants Victor to keep making those involuntary noises of pleasure, but he holds himself back. One hand comes up to grip Victor’s jaw, just firmly enough to make him blink his eyes open, waiting,

“When I ask you a question,” Yuuri murmurs, and watches Victor’s eyes blow wide and dark. “I expect you to answer it, Victor.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor gasps. His lips are slick with chapstick and Yuuri’s own spit, and the sight is hotter than it has any real right to be. _“Yes_ , Yuuri.”

“Good.” Darkly pleased, waiting for the word to hit Victor’s system like a spark. Victor jolts underneath him, a small drop of fluid pearling at the tip of his cock, still hard against his abdomen. Yuuri gets comfortable, balanced back on his knees above Victor’s thighs, and reaches down, placing his palm flat just above Victor’s straining cock. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Victor groans. Yuuri can feel the muscles clenching and flexing underneath his hand, evidence of Victor’s tension and the sheer willpower keeping him in place right now. Yuuri digs his fingers in, just a little bit, and this time the groan is more high pitched, almost a whine.

“Yes,” Victor says—he seems to be catching on. _Good boy_ , Yuuri thinks again, and wonders if he’s ever going to be brave enough to say it out loud. “Touch me, Yuuri, _please_.”

Yuuri hums a little, in the back of his throat, and Victor arches up just slightly, his back bowing into an even more perfect curve. It’s what makes up Yuuri’s mind—the planes of Victor’s chest stretching, the tendons in his arms flexing as he fights to keep his hold on the bars of the headboard, the flush still painting his chest a beautiful pink. Yuuri drags his hand up, and up, until his fingers are resting in the hollow of Victor’s throat, warm brown against the warm flush of Victor’s pale skin. Victor gasps as Yuuri’s fingers trail delicately up his skin, just enough to make him shiver.

“What—?” Yuuri cuts him off with a small tap of one finger against the base of his throat. Victor’s voice dies, and he blinks, once.

“Shh.” It comes out almost threatening and Yuuri pauses, letting his fingers trace lightly over Victor’s collarbone. He loves the way Victor reacts to this, to the softest of touches; he gasps each time Yuuri moves like he can’t help but not expect it, like each brush of skin on sensitive skin is lighting his nerve endings alight. “You wanted me to touch you, right? So stay still, and let me touch you.”

Victor’s next inhale is shaky, and pushes Yuuri’s fingers just a little more firmly into his skin. He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t shove Yuuri off him or open his mouth to beg again, and something like satisfaction settles in with Yuuri’s arousal. He’s still hard, of course he is, but it’s not what he’s concerned with—all his attention is on Victor, now, spread out and wanting and _waiting_. For a long moment, Yuuri just _looks_ down at Victor, taking in the man he loves, and simply lets himself be overwhelmed.

And then, Yuuri spreads both his hands flat across Victor’s chest, and leans down to kiss him again.

This kiss is deeper, crossing the line into _filthy_ in just a few seconds, and Yuuri can’t stop himself from moaning into it. Victor’s hips buck up, cock sliding against Yuuri’s abdomen, and Yuuri retaliates by taking Victor’s lower lip between his teeth, threatening a bite in a careful warning that has Victor succumbing underneath him, his mouth dropping open; ready and willing to be used as Yuuri likes. In one slow movement, Yuuri drags his hands down to Victor’s waist, letting the firm pressure of his fingers coax Victor’s body into a slow roll underneath him. Victor’s lips slacken on a small moan, and Yuuri pulls away just enough that their lips aren’t touching anymore.

“Is this what you want?” He asks; Victor’s breath ghosts along his lips, tremulous and enraptured. “My hands on you, everywhere they can reach, and you helpless beneath me, holding yourself in place as I do _whatever_ I want to you?”

The noise that tears its way out of Victor’s throat is almost animal. It’s halfway to a whimper, and yet still guttural enough to be a moan, and Yuuri almost has to reach down and wrap a hand around the base of his own cock, to stave off the helpless wave of arousal that surges at the noise. Yuuri watches through hooded eyes as Victor’s mouth gapes open in seeming disbelief, as his eyes cloud over with lust. It’s almost as if Yuuri is watching him let himself go, releasing the ever-present World Champion Victor Nikiforov as he surrenders himself wholly, fully, completely to Yuuri’s will.

It’s terrifying. Yuuri almost falters, his firm grip on Victor’s hip loosening slightly, and Victor’s eyes widen beneath him.

“Anything,” he gasps, something like desperation in his voice, though Yuuri isn’t sure for what. “Please, Yuuri, anything you want—”

“Good,” Yuuri says, abruptly, and leans down again to kiss the enraptured smile off of Victor’s face. When he pulls away, Victor’s eyes are closed, his arms straining and taut. Yuuri sits back, careful to keep his weight balanced above Victor’s thighs without bearing down on them too much. He thinks for a moment, and then swings himself off to the side, kneeling next to Victor’s stretched-out torso, lean and pale and beautiful.

“Put your feet flat on the bed,” Yuuri says, and while it comes out more contemplative than he would have liked, Victor still scrambles to obey. “Knees spread. Just like that, good.”

The praise makes Victor’s flush deepen, and as he edges his legs apart, his cock twitches against his abdomen. Yuuri can do nothing but watch as Victor bends to his will, looking up through his bangs once he’s in place as if he’s asking for a reward, or for praise. Yuuri hums a little in the back of his throat and pushes the strands of gray off of Victor’s forehead, damp from the shower and, now, from sweat. He almost feels bad, getting them both worked up and sweaty again, but there’s always the onsen to go and soak in afterwards. Victor’s thighs are trembling, his breath uneven. He looks—beautiful, Yuuri thinks, and lets himself feel awed.

“Good,” he says again, this time on an exhale, and Victor’s lashes flutter against his cheeks as he slides his eyes closed, drinking in the praise. Yuuri feels like a scratched record, repeating the same word with nowhere else to go, even with Victor spread out and offering everything to him on a silver platter. Yuuri reaches out, and lets his fingers trail over the curve of Victor’s collarbone, his skin stretched over it delicately. There’s nothing extra about the build of Victor’s body, not a single ounce of extra weight. He’s kept himself in competition shape, Yuuri thinks idly, as he traces his way down to Victor’s sternum.

It doesn’t make him feel inadequate anymore. The first few times they had been in the onsen together, later joined by Yuri, Yuuri had been self-conscious. He hadn’t wanted Victor to see the extra weight still gathered slightly at his hips; the stretch marks on his lower belly and thighs he couldn’t have hidden, that are faded now but not entirely gone. Yuuri has outgrown not wanting Victor to look at him.

“Open your eyes,” he says, tapping lightly on the hollow between Victor’s ribs, and Victor’s eyes flick open immediately. He stares up at Yuuri, and Yuuri is struck suddenly by how vulnerable he looks like this, hair pushed back from his face and lips parted. Yuuri’s free hand is moving before he can think, his thumb resting lightly on Victor’s lower lip, smooth and pinked. Victor has been biting it.

Victor’s eyes darken. Yuuri doesn’t let himself stop and think before he’s pushing past the slack resistance of Victor’s lips into the heat of his mouth. Victor makes a noise, muffled around the digit, and Yuuri presses down on his tongue, urging him wordlessly to let his lips slacken once again, to let Yuuri explore without resistance. Victor’s immediate compliance is heady; he watches Yuuri with lowered eyelids, spit shining at the corner of his mouth, curved delicately around Yuuri’s thumb. His other hand trails lightly across one of Victor’s nipples, peaked from the cold, and Victor makes another, slightly shocked noise.

“Do you like this?” Yuuri asks. He means it to come out earnest—even if he can tell that Victor is enjoying himself, sometimes it’s nice to have the confirmation. And yet, it comes out darker than he’d intended, and Victor nods his head just slightly enough to make Yuuri’s finger slip on his tongue, engulfed by heat and slick and driving the both of them higher into this unknown place. Yuuri pinches his nipple, and Victor’s whole body jerks with it.

“You’re—sensitive,” he says, and finds himself almost surprised. Of course, Yuuri had known that Victor’s skin is sensitive, and the man himself more than receptive to touch. He seeks it out wherever he can, these days; and yet Yuuri is only now realizing the depth of it, the way Victor had always arched into his touch between the sheets of their bed, willing to spread himself open or do the same to Yuuri if it meant being _close_. “You like it when I touch you like this, don’t you, Vitya?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Victor moans, and it’s barely audible through the finger in his mouth but Yuuri hears it anyway. Spit is starting to pool in Victor’s mouth, and he pulls out his thumb, dragging it mock-sweetly over Victor’s cheek to wipe off the excess spit. If possible, Victor’s flush deepens, and Yuuri tells himself absently to ask about it.

This time, when Yuuri moves, he settles himself between Victor’s spread thighs, kneeling in front of Victor. He feels almost like the supplicant now as he trails his hands down Victor’s torso, stopping to rest lightly on the tops of his thighs as they angle up. Victor isn’t watching him, his head still flat on the bed, but Yuuri can see his open eyes, staring up at the ceiling as Yuuri leans down and lets his breath ghost over Victor’s cock.

Victor gasps. Yuuri has no intention to follow through but the gasp almost tempts him, and he has to pull himself away before he leans down to taste the pre-come beading at the tip. He loves sucking Victor off, but now isn’t really the time. Instead, he turns his head towards Victor’s sensitive inner thighs, letting his breath raise goosebumps that he traces carefully with his fingers as Victor whimpers from the head of the bed, his legs straining with the constant effort to keep still. Yuuri presses a careful kiss to the smooth skin of one of Victor’s inner thighs, and then does the same to the next.

“ _Please_ ,” Victor gasps out, from the head of the bed, and Yuuri pauses with his lips inches away from Victor’s skin. A soft breath escapes him, and Victor’s skin—not yet smooth—rises again. Yuuri’s eyes flutter shut for the briefest of seconds as he allows himself to bask in that one word; the beginning of Victor’s walls starting to crumble. There is so much emotion packed into that single word—desperation, lust, _hunger_ —all overshadowed by the aching rawness of it. It seems to tear its way from Victor’s throat, fighting a battle to make it past his lips, and it’s well worth a reward, as soon as Victor finishes the thought. It takes a long moment, both of them pulled taut in anticipation, before Victor lets himself speak again, shaking and broken. “Please—Yuuri, touch my cock—I need—”

“Shhh,” Yuuri whispers, the consonants sharp on his tongue. Victor’s thighs are trembling. “You’re so good, Victor—asking for it.”

“Please,” Victor whimpers, and it’s all Yuuri can do not to pin him down and make him beg again and again and _again_.

“Don’t worry.” His voice is deceptively calm, masking the nerves twisting in his stomach. This has to be right, he wants this to be _good_ , wants this to be what Victor needs from him. “I’ll give you what you need.”

Not a half-second later, Yuuri’s hands smooth their way up the inside of Victor’s thighs, and Victor chokes on what might be a sob. He’s trembling with the effort of keeping himself still and Yuuri hums out his pleasure, his fingers tickling softly at the place where Victor’s thigh meets the curve of his ass. No words are rising to his tongue now; he’s too distracted by the silky feel of Victor’s well-moisturized skin under the pads of his fingers, by the way that Victor can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. He’s gasping out incoherent syllables in Russian or English or Japanese or even French, and Yuuri can’t make out a single one of them, and Yuuri doesn’t care.

“What do you say, Vitya?” Yuuri murmurs, when his fingers have reached the base of Victor’s cock. He’s not touching, not yet; the tips of his fingers are a fraction of a centimeter away from where Victor is hot and needy, and he can see how much Victor _wants_ it in every aborted buck of his hips.

“Thank you,” Victor gasps. He hardly sounds human, voice reedy and thin and choked with tears or emotion or stifled arousal. Yuuri looks up and meets his desperate gaze, and is greeted by the sight of Victor’s eyes shining with tears, his cheeks flushed and lips bitten red and swollen.

“That’s a good look for you.” The words tumble out without Yuuri’s permission, but Victor’s eyes widen just enough to be noticeable. “You like that? You like it when I tell you how pretty you look like this, wrecked and messy and desperate for me to touch you?”

“Yuuri, _Yuuri_ —” Victor cuts himself off, from what might have been another desperate plea. Yuuri feels the smirk on his lips, and wonders when he got so bold.

“Oh, I’ll give you what you want.” The words are punctuated with a gentle pressure on Victor’s skin, still not touching where he needs it the most, and Victor gasps. “But we’ll be going at my pace, and you’ll be asking for it every step of the way.”

“Please,” Victor says again. He finally seems to have picked up on it, on what Yuuri wants from him today, and he lets his head drop back against the pillow. Some of the tension has eased out of his body, though not much, and Yuuri rewards him with another long stroke of his hands down Victor’s thighs. The touch, to Victor, seems electric; every time Yuuri moves his hands it’s like Victor can’t stop the helpless noises tumbling past his lips, the unintentional shaking of his thighs. “Please touch my cock, _Yuuri_.”

“Good boy,” Yuuri says, unthinkingly, and Victor’s entire body freezes up. Yuuri stops moving, his hands still on Victor’s upper thighs, and sits back on his heels. His own cheeks are burning now—what had gotten into him? What if he’s overstepped his bounds, what if it wasn’t what Victor wanted, what if—

“Say it again,” Victor chokes out, and Yuuri cannot see his face but he can still hear the tears in Victor’s voice. “Yuuri—say it _again_.”

Oh. Yuuri’s hands start wandering again, moving towards the center of Victor’s body, towards the heat between his thighs. This time, he doesn’t stop his hands before they reach Victor’s cock, and Yuuri grips him firmly with one hand, the other reaching down to cup Victor’s balls. The noise Victor makes is obscene enough that Yuuri has to stifle a groan, and resist the growing urge to palm at his own cock.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” He asks, voice quiet enough that he can still hear Victor’s gasping breaths. “That you’re a good boy?”

He punctuates the word with a slow stroke down, and back up; the way is slicked by the precome that Victor has been dripping almost since he’d gotten on the bed. Victor’s hands tighten around the bars of the headboard, trying to stifle the shaking.

“You’re so good,” Yuuri says, on a trembling exhale. “I can’t—believe it, sometimes, how good you are to me. And like this, when you give yourself up—it’s _beautiful_ , Vitya—”

“More,” Victor begs. Yuuri smiles to himself, and takes his hand off Victor’s balls to land a sharp smack to his inner thigh. Victor yelps, and immediately corrects himself: “Please, _please_ touch me more.”

“Okay,” Yuuri replies, and leans down to press a gentle kiss to the well-defined abdominal muscles stretched out in front of him. His grip around Victor’s cock tightens slightly, and he starts working his hand faster, using his thumb to swipe at the sensitive place just below Victor’s head. In moments he has Victor writhing and spread out in front of him, clinging to the last possible vestiges of his self-control. Yuuri watches, and waits, and ignores the throb of his own near-painful arousal.

“Fuck me,” he finally gasps, when his hips have started to jerk up into Yuuri’s hands no matter how hard he tries to stop them. “Please, I need it— _fuck_ me Yuuri, please—”

“Anything,” Yuuri says, and can’t help but push himself up onto his knees, taking his hands off of Victor’s cock and bracing himself to land a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on Victor’s parted lips.

Victor moans slightly, in protest of the straining arousal that Yuuri is now neglecting, but after a long moment he forgets himself and slackens his grip on the headboard, his arms coming up to wrap around Yuuri’s bare shoulders. It’s against Yuuri’s instructions but he can’t bring himself to care, even when Victor’s legs jerk out from beneath him and wrap around Yuuri’s hips, dragging him closer and closer until they’re pressed flush together. It’s the first friction Yuuri has had on his cock and he can’t stifle the open-mouthed pants against Victor’s mouth, helpless with the sudden pleasure.

“Yuuri,” Victor hums between kisses. His fingers bury themselves in Yuuri’s damp hair, his eyes lidded like he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, like he’d stay messy and pliant underneath Yuuri for the rest of his life if he could. He keeps murmuring Yuuri’s name without any artifice, or meaning behind the word other than heat and passion and contentment.

“Victor,” Yuuri finally manages, when he can stop kissing Victor’s lips and neck and jaw long enough to form words. “Get the—from the drawer, the lube—”

“Here,” Victor gasps, and reaches for where he had placed it on the bedside table not an arm’s length away, probably while Yuuri was still in the bathroom. All the finesse has bled from their movements—Yuuri mouths at the pale expanse of Victor’s neck as he fumbles to take the bottle from him, bracing himself on one arm as Victor’s fingers snake back into his hair.

The first time they had done anything like this—the night after the exhibition skate at the Cup of China—Victor had gotten on his knees in front of the plush hotel bed and gone down on Yuuri until he was shaking with oversensitivity and practically dragging Victor off his cock by the hair. It had been a wet dream come true: Victor Nikiforov, kneeling down with his lips swollen red and a thick line of Yuuri’s come on his cheek, panting and hard and looking like the cat that had gotten the canary. The time after that, Yuuri had come home from ballet with Minako, and found Victor splayed face-down on his bed, ass canted into the air with three fingers buried inside himself.

“I didn’t want to wait,” Victor had admitted sleepily, almost an hour later. “I wanted you to come home and just be able to—use me.”

At the time, Yuuri hadn’t quite understood. Back in America he had always liked to take his time with his few partners, spending hours opening each other up and coming together until they were both exhausted and messy and cursing Yuuri’s stamina. Now, he thinks he understands Victor a little better: his desire to please, to be _wanted_ , and the way that it expresses itself in bed.

Today, though, Victor hasn’t had time to stretch himself with careful fingers, and so Yuuri gets to take his time. It is both infuriating and satisfying, both because of the aching arousal under his skin and despite it. He loves getting to prepare Victor himself, to feel the careful give of his muscles as he relaxes just enough to let Yuuri inside of him, into that intimate spot that almost— _belongs_ to him now.

“Mine,” Victor murmurs, breaking Yuuri out of his reverie, and drags him down by his hair for another kiss.

Yuuri goes down easy, his single hand still fumbling with the lube, which finally pops open to spill onto his fingers. They’re making a mess of Yuuri’s bed, of his clean navy sheets, and he can’t even bring himself to care, not when Victor’s legs are so invitingly spread, his ankles crossed at the small of Yuuri’s back. Victor opens up to one finger smoothly, his lips mouthing wet promises against the juncture of Yuuri’s neck— _please, more, I’ll do anything_ —as Yuuri rubs the pads of two fingers against the slick heat of Victor’s hole.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, when Yuuri pushes in those two fingers, slow and easy and not _enough_ , he knows. It’s Yuuri’s favorite word to hear out of Victor’s mouth; _don’t take your eyes off of me_ , he had once asked, and when Victor says his name like that, thick and heady and pleading, he knows that Victor is _watching_ him.

“Victor,” he replies, and sucks a small mark into the pale expanse of Victor’s long neck. Victor makes a noise at that, something surprised and guttural, and goes tight around Yuuri’s careful fingers.

“Please—” Victor cuts himself off, like he’s rethinking what he was going to say, and Yuuri twists his fingers mercilessly against the spot that makes Victor writhe because Victor shouldn’t even be _able_ to think right now. Victor ends up throwing his head back and gasping, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against Yuuri’s sweat-slick back. _“Please.”_

“Soon,” Yuuri promises, and adds more lube to the dripping mess already between Victor’s thighs. Working the third finger in takes a little time; Victor is tense from anticipation, and it takes a long moment of stroking his clean hand along Victor’s flank before he finally lets Yuuri in, opening up with a drawn-out moan that starts out as something like a whimper. This is an exercise in the noises Victor makes when he’s desperate, and Yuuri catalogues them all with kisses pressed to every inch of Victor’s body that he can reach.

When Victor stops stuttering out half-coherent pleas, when he stops chanting Yuuri’s name like a prayer and slips into whines that sound like they’re ripped from his throat every time Yuuri strokes against his prostate, Yuuri decides that he’s ready. Victor’s eyes are half-lidded and glossed over with what might be tears, and he’s looking up at Yuuri like they are the only two people who exist right now, like Yuuri is his entire _world_. Yuuri stops, three fingers still buried tight inside Victor’s body, and listens to the two of them breathing together, lips inches apart.

“Tell me what you want,” he finally says, and Victor doesn’t even hesitate.

“Anything that you’ll give me.” It’s maybe the most honest Yuuri has ever heard him—completely uninhibited and open and debauched. “Please, _Yuuri_ , I want everything—”

Yuuri kisses him. Yuuri kisses him, and Victor goes limp underneath him like he’s finally, _finally_ surrendering, and Victor makes a noise like he’s going to cry or is already crying, and neither of them care because Victor’s fingers are threaded through Yuuri’s hair and Yuuri’s hand is on Victor’s cheek and even though they’ve had sex before this is the closest Yuuri has ever felt to him.

“Touch me,” Victor begs, when they pull apart gasping, and Yuuri couldn’t say no to him if he wanted to. He draws his fingers out as gently as he can, and uses the excess of lube to slick up his own cock, desperately hard and beaded with precome at the reddened tip. Victor’s legs are still wrapped around Yuuri’s hips, and he spreads his thighs as wide as possible to let Yuuri settle between the comfortably, one hand braced on the mattress as he positions himself at Victor’s entrance.

They’ve had sex before—Yuuri has fucked Victor before, and enjoyed it immensely. But nothing they’ve done has ever felt quite like this; Victor’s fingers carding through Yuuri’s hair, scratching long his shoulders, gripping at his biceps like Victor is trying to keep himself anchored to reality. There’s never been this kind of desperation in Victor’s eyes—to be wanted, to be loved, to be _touched_ —and Yuuri feels like he’s drowning in it.

“Fuck me,” Victor breathes out, lips swollen and eyes wide and so close that Yuuri can feel the words against his skin. “Fuck me, please.”

“Good boy.” It slips out, again, before Yuuri can stop it, and he watches Victor’s eyes close for a long moment, his breath hitching before he slides them open again. Yuuri can feel himself flush, and he readjusts the slick grip on his cock before pressing forward, into the space between Victor’s flexible thighs, to push the head of his cock into Victor’s hole.

The reaction from Victor is instantaneous. He gasps, the sound strangled in his throat, and his nails dig sharply into the skin of Yuuri’s shoulders. His legs tighten around Yuuri’s hips, drawing him closer, and Yuuri moves with them deeper and deeper into Victor’s desperate heat, and it’s too much too fast and so he buries his face into Victor’s shoulder and kisses a moan into the sweaty skin.

Fucking Victor is unlike anything else Yuuri has ever felt in his life. It always feel like Victor is trying to draw him in deeper with every stroke, like he wants Yuuri to go deeper than anyone has ever been and _ruin_ him for anyone else. And so Yuuri tries; as soon as he regains his composure he’s moving up again, kissing Victor so deeply that he forgets for a moment that he’s still buried inside of him. And then he moves, and Victor breaks the kiss to moan, and Yuuri decides that if Victor wants to be ruined for anyone else, then that is what Yuuri is going to do.

It’s not hard, getting Victor writhing underneath him. Yuuri’s stamina has always been a gift, and he fucks Victor long and slow and so deep that Victor squirms every time Yuuri bottoms out, overstimulated and grasping at Yuuri’s back and crying out _more, please_. His hair, dry at the tips, is splayed out against the pillow and sticking to his sweaty face and Yuuri pushes it away with one hand as he keeps himself steady with the other. Victor catches his wrist before he can draw it away, and silently brings Yuuri’s fingers to his lips. Yuuri’s thrusts falter when Victor parts his lips, and takes Yuuri’s fingers into the warm wet of his mouth, and closes his eyes like this is where he _belongs_ , stuck between Yuuri’s fingers and his cock.

“Fuck,” Yuuri curses, and he swears he sees Victor smile around his fingers. He starts to pick up his pace then, fucking Victor faster and harder until they’re both panting from exertion and Victor’s eyes are practically rolling in pleasure. He’s whining around Yuuri’s fingers now, little punched-out things that sound so desperate that it satisfies some deep animal part of Yuuri that he hadn’t even known existed until this, until having Victor on his back underneath him acting like he’s losing his mind out of sheer arousal.

Even with all his stamina, Yuuri can only last so long inside of Victor’s tight, warm channel. Victor can tell, too; his hips are lifting now to meet Yuuri’s, driving his cock deeper and harder with each near-violent thrust. Yuuri forgets how to speak, how to think, how to do anything except look at Victor underneath him, lashes damp and lips swollen, almost bruised-looking in pleasure. Yuuri almost wants to close his eyes against the sight, to lose himself in the simple pleasure of fucking Victor Nikiforov, as hard and fast as he’d ever dreamed of as a teenager trying not to stare at the posters lining his bedroom walls. Instead, Yuuri forces his eyes open and holds Victor’s gaze before tugging his fingers out of Victor’s mouth, dragging them down his neck and chest so that Victor’s spit smears all over his own skin. Victor moans openly at that, his neck arching back as if to give Yuuri free reign to it. Yuuri takes the opportunity, sucking a dark mark into the pale skin as his fingers find Victor’s cock, as Victor’s throat constricts around the helpless noises he makes as Yuuri fucks him and strokes in time with the thrusts.

“I’m going to—” Victor chokes, gripping Yuuri’s hair so tightly that it pulls him up from Victor’s neck, back up to watching him fall apart from above.

“Ask me,” Yuuri pants. Victor’s eyes widen, and his grip tightens, and a smile curves at the corner of his mouth like this is what he had wanted all along.

“Please, Yuuri, let me _come._ ”

It’s exactly what Yuuri wanted to hear, and it’s exactly what he needs to give that last push, to grip Victor’s cock just a fraction tighter and fuck into him hard enough that Victor goes limp underneath him, mouth dropping open as he comes across his own stomach and Yuuri’s hand in hot ropes. It seems to last an eternity; Victor clenching down on Yuuri’s cock, his fingernails digging crescent bruises into Yuuri’s shoulders, mouthing incoherent breaths as he rides his orgasm with Yuuri still fucking into him.

When Victor starts to come down, twitching at every pass of Yuuri’s cock over his prostate, Yuuri slows his thrusts until he’s still and buried inside of him. Victor’s eyes are half-open, though he doesn’t seem to be seeing anything solidly at the moment, and he tugs weakly until Yuuri gives in and half-falls on top of him, muscles aching and sore and his stomach smearing immediately with Victor’s come.

“Yuuri,” Victor gasps, after a long moment spent trying to catch his breath. “Yuuri, you’re still—you haven’t—”

“Oh, I can—” Yuuri starts, fumbling for the first time since Victor had kneeled for him in the bathroom. He can feel himself flushing, can feel Victor’s exhausted smile pressing against his cheek.

“Keep going.” Victor’s voice is wrecked, soft and broken by jagged breaths. “Fuck me, use me to come, I _want_ you to.”

And, fuck, of course he does. Yuuri muffles a groan against Victor’s skin, and pushes himself back up on his forearms, and shifts his hips ever so slightly. Even the smallest movement makes Victor jerk, but his ankles are still crossed at the small of Yuuri’s back and he refuses to let Yuuri pull out all the way. And so Yuuri builds up his pace, relishing Victor’s overstimulated whimpers and cries as he gets closer and closer to the edge of his own orgasm.

“Come in me,” Victor pleads, whispering in Yuuri’s ear just loud enough to make himself heard. Yuuri groans and buries himself inside of Victor again, closing his eyes against the onslaught. “Make me yours, Yuuri, mark me, let me feel you inside of me, I _want_ it.”

And that’s how Yuuri comes: Victor’s voice urging him to use him, mark him, _claim_ him. It’s overwhelming enough that he barely notices when his arms give out again, Victor holding him close and tender as he finishes coming thick and hot inside of Victor Nikiforov, Victor his coach, Victor who never stops _wanting_ him. Yuuri is the one gasping for breath now, Victor’s hands pushing back his sweat-damp hair as he murmurs soft nothings in his native tongue. Yuuri finally moves when Victor shifts a thigh and clenches around Yuuri’s soft cock involuntarily, sending a shock of jagged sensation through him; he sits up slowly, pulling out as gently as he can and trying not to blush at the obscene sight of his own come coming out of Victor’s swollen entrance.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, and Victor manages a solemn nod before pulling Yuuri back down, practically on top of him still. “Do you want—I can get a cloth, clean us up—”

“No,” Victor blurts, fast enough that Yuuri lifts his head enough to look him in the eye. “No, I want—” He pauses, and Yuuri feels his own brow furrow.

“Victor, we had a deal. You tell me what you want, remember?” Victor flushes, and averts his eyes, and Yuuri watches him and waits until their gazes lock again. Victor sighs, and one of his fingers absently twirls a lock of Yuuri’s hair.

“I want you to keep touching me,” he admits, and it sounds like the words hadn’t come easily. Yuuri waits a little longer, and Victor closes his eyes against the insistent contact. “When you hold me I feel—like you want me. No one’s ever really—held me like you do, before.”

Of all the things Yuuri had expected, that hadn’t been it. _No one—?_ It’s impossible to imagine; Victor is such a tactile man, taking every chance he has to wrap Yuuri in his arms, and there’s no way any of his no-doubt numerous partners hadn’t taken advantage of that. Yuuri pushes himself up, and Victor still refuses to look at him.

“No one?” He asks, and Victor’s flush deepens. Yuuri feels the shift of his muscles before Victor can actually begin to pull himself away, and immediately flattens himself back on top of his coach. It feels almost childish, using himself as deadweight to stop Victor from escaping a conversation, and Yuuri can’t help the smile he can feel spreading on his face.

“No one ever really stuck around long enough,” Victor says, voice quiet, and the smile drops from Yuuri’s face. There’s some kind of emotion growing in the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t know whether to call it rage or satisfaction. The idea of being the first person to hold Victor like this, like they do practically every night now, sets something in Yuuri on fire, and he wouldn’t know how to name it if he tried. He doesn’t know what he could say, other than reassure Victor that he wants, he wants _so badly_ to hold him every moment of the day, how that had been what he dreamed about at night for years before this.

“I’m going to get a cloth,” he says instead, slowly. “I’m going to clean us up, and then we are going to take this blanket off the bed, and I am going to hold you until one of us gets hungry enough to move.”

Victor’s eyes slit open, and the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly, and Yuuri can’t resist leaning up and kissing him, just because he _can_.

Yuuri does end up getting a cloth, after a long moment spent enjoying Victor’s pliant lips, and Victor spreads himself across the bed and watches lazily as Yuuri cleans the both of them up. He doesn’t even try to be helpful when Yuuri starts dragging the top blanket off the bed, and Yuuri has to physically roll Victor off of it before dumping the blanket unceremoniously on the floor and crawling back on the bed.

It takes them a few minutes to get comfortable, but Yuuri eventually finds himself lying with his arm draped across Victor’s waist as they lie together, faces inches apart and legs tangled underneath the blankets. Victor’s eyes are wide and unblinking as he watches Yuuri in the dim light of the room, filtered out by the blinds, and Yuuri is content to listen to the soft sound of Victor’s breathing as Victor traces a step sequence into Yuuri’s hip with his index finger.

“I’ll touch you as much as you want,” Yuuri finally blurts, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Victor’s breath catches audibly and his finger pauses against Yuuri’s hipbone, choreography all but forgotten. “I don’t—I know I’m maybe not your first choice, but if you want me to hold you, all you have to do is ask.”

Victor burrows himself deeper into the cushions, and then seems to think better of it and leans across the scant space separating them and presses his lips delicately to Yuuri’s cheek. For some unknowable reason, it makes Yuuri blush, and when Victor sees it he starts to smile, the bow of his lips so resemblant of a heart that Yuuri has to smile back.

“I will,” Victor promises, and takes a moment to tuck himself into Yuuri’s arms, his chin resting on Yuuri’s shoulder. "And you are my first choice."

It's almost a whisper, and Yuuri almost misses it, but instead of arguing like the tiny anxious part of his brain is telling him to, Yuuri just exhales into Victor's silky hair and holds him that much tighter for it.

Eventually, they will have to get up and face Mari’s knowing looks, his mother’s good-natured teasing, and the rest of the world outside this bedroom, but for now Yuuri decides that drifting off again, Victor wrapped around him almost desperately, might not be the worst thing in the world.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, and Yuuri makes a small noise of sleepy assent in the back of his throat, too drowsy to form any proper response. Victor huffs out a small laugh, and slides his hand across the small of Yuuri’s back. “Rest well, darling.”

The endearment is new, but Yuuri hardly thinks to comment on it, too distracted by falling back asleep. Victor is warm against him, like some kind of Russian space heater, and Yuuri relaxes into the embrace with a soft sigh, content and sated and exhausted by the morning. He doesn’t feel too guilty about falling asleep, though; after all, rest days only come so often, and Yuuri has to savor them when he can.

**Author's Note:**

> [main blog](http://verelesbian.co.vu) | [yoi blog](http://laurvnts.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/verelesbian)


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